


This Slow Burn

by bloodsongs



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:38:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsongs/pseuds/bloodsongs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "Arthur counts the days between Merlin's smiles."</p><p>Sometimes Arthur doesn’t want to push, but sometimes Arthur burns with the desire to know, to do something. He hates feeling useless, fists clenched tight at his side as whatever plagues Merlin’s thoughts gnaws at him, eating slowly until he’s wan and tired. The smiles return after, like little glimpses of sunlight through a long and dark winter, where everything is right and normal again because Merlin is smiling and happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Slow Burn

Arthur’s not sure how it actually began.

His manservant is an open book. Somewhere between the soft halcyon days of Camelot’s summers and the brutal campaigns he’s led over the years, Arthur’s slowly learned to read every single one of Merlin’s little expressions: from his exasperated grimace when Arthur tells him to muck out the stables and his all-too-blatant eye-rolling when Arthur insults him up to the quiet, lingering looks of pride and fierce affection he directs Arthur’s way when he thinks Arthur isn’t looking.

The first time he realises he’s been looking for it, five days had passed since Merlin last smiled. He didn’t really notice it before, but he’d been rather preoccupied with some visiting nobles; his interaction with Merlin had been minimal beyond his usual quips in the morning as he got Arthur dressed and later during the evenings when he was finishing his duties for the day. 

Then again, he should have picked up on how Merlin was being unusually quiet, his parries to Arthur’s insults half-hearted and sounding distracted. It wasn’t like him.

Merlin shifts uncomfortably where he is, probably waiting for Arthur’s dismissal now that the feast is over and the fire’s roaring in the hearth. Silence hangs between them, leaden and unwelcome. 

It’s jarring. 

“Do you require anything else of me, sire?” Merlin says, and Arthur looks up at him, really looks. There’s something wrong with a Merlin who’s so out of it, who looks so weary and worn out that he becomes all stiff, subservient politeness, eyes downcast.

What happened? Arthur wants to ask, forms the serious question in his head. He considers phrasing it in a joking manner, to lighten the tension: One of Gaius’ experimental medicines gone wrong? He wants to say, tell me.

Instead, Arthur nods jerkily and doesn’t try to meet Merlin’s eyes. “No, Merlin.”

Merlin doesn’t move for a long moment, just shuffling his feet, and Arthur can hear him taking in a sharp, unhappy breath from across the room. He walks towards the door eventually, but not before turning back to look at Arthur, expression heavy.

Arthur meets his gaze then, quiet, and clears his throat. He’s not sure what prompts him to say what he says, next. “Forgot your head, Merlin?”

Startled, Merlin blinks at him, the shadows falling away from his face, indignation settling in as he flushes and scowls. “No!”

“Good,” Arthur laughs, feeling curiously relieved that he’s managed to goad Merlin into snapping back. “Go have a good night’s rest,” he adds, because he doesn’t want Merlin to think that he’s a complete prat tonight, since he appeared to be feeling poorly.

Merlin still looks tired, but he scoffs. “You are such an arse, Your Highness,” he says, without much heat, but then his eyes crinkle just the slightest bit as he smiles, tentative. 

It’s subtle, but it’s there, and Arthur counts that as a small victory. “I’d say you can’t talk to me like that, but given how bad you are at following orders...”

Even though it doesn’t really reach his eyes, Merlin’s smile widens and he takes a quick, mocking bow. “I aim to please.”

“Good night, then,” Arthur says, quietly, smiling in turn. 

The somber mood from before has lifted, and Merlin glances briefly at him, hesitating as though he wants to say something before he leaves. He swallows, and shakes his head, but at least his smile is no longer faltering. “Sleep well, Arthur.”

Arthur does. 

* * *

 

There are other times lost in the days and months Merlin stays by his side in Camelot when sadness, rare and grave, envelops Merlin like a cloud. Arthur doesn’t know what to do most days when Merlin distances himself, mouth a thin line and his mind elsewhere even when he’s talking to Arthur.

Sometimes Arthur doesn’t want to push, but sometimes Arthur burns with the desire to know, to do something. He hates feeling useless, fists clenched tight at his side as whatever plagues Merlin’s thoughts gnaws at him, eating slowly until he’s wan and tired. The smiles return after, like little glimpses of sunlight through a long and dark winter, where everything is right and normal again because Merlin is smiling and happy. 

He doesn’t have words to describe it, but Merlin is that kind of person who shouldn’t be sad. Arthur would never admit it, to Morgana or Guinevere or anyone or heaven forbid, Merlin _himself_ , but he takes no small amount of comfort from Merlin’s cheer just like the rest of the castle. Merlin’s smiling countenance does wonders for his days when his father’s been particularly harsh, or his drills with his knights particularly grueling. 

It doesn’t matter if he just bullies Merlin a little at the end of a trying afternoon when he’s certainly not sulking, thank you very much, because Merlin would just hurl a jibe back at him in kind, shrug it off, and Arthur would feel better.

Arthur knows how to cheer himself up, how to snipe at Morgana until she smirks when her nightmares give her dark shadows beneath her eyes, or even how to steer tricky conversations away from sorcery with his father to not rouse his ire, but he has no real idea how to coax a smile out of Merlin without resorting to insults. 

Insulting Merlin when he’s down just to get him to retort is getting old, and it makes Arthur uncomfortable with guilt that he can’t just talk to Merlin about it and a little disappointed that Merlin, in turn, won’t confide in Arthur when he’s feeling wretched.

Then again, Arthur’s never asked, and he’s painfully aware that if all he does is insult Merlin when he might be bearing the weight of something truly crushing about his shoulders... well, it’s no wonder why Merlin won’t say a word.

He walks into his chambers one afternoon, wiping the sweat off his brow when he sees Merlin standing near the window, hands tense and rigid against the sill as he looks out over the courtyard while two men clean the pyre, sweeping the ashy remains of the latest sorcerous criminal off the stones. Merlin’s breathing heavily, not having noticed Arthur’s footsteps in the least, head bowed and tension in every line of his body.

It’s been three days, this time. Three days since the first sorcerer of a family living on the outskirts of Camelot was sentenced to death, and three days since the sickening stench of burning flesh hung in the square. A member of the family was burned every day; first, the father, then the mother, and today, the oldest son, a boy who was probably only a few years younger than both Arthur and Merlin.

Merlin’s been the most closed off Arthur’s seen him, barely speaking at all, looking nauseous and horrified when he’s stumbling his way out of Arthur’s chambers to hastily mumble excuses about chores he’s forgotten, things he’s not tended to with Gaius’ potions.

“Merlin?” Arthur says, walking up to him. Merlin doesn’t jerk, but perhaps he’s been expecting Arthur to return. He turns around to look at Arthur, forced smile already in place. 

Arthur hates those forced smiles of Merlin’s just as much as he hates feeling useless, hates that Merlin thinks they’re necessary in the first place after the first few times he’s let his guard down around Arthur. He’s still rubbish at concealing his emotions, anyway, if the tight furrowing of his brows is any indication.

“You’re back early,” Merlin tries, and makes to move around Arthur.

Against his better judgment, Arthur shifts so he’s blocking Merlin’s path. “What were you looking at outside?” Arthur asks conversationally, trying for casual. He thinks he sees Merlin flinch out of the corner of his eye, and wonders.

Merlin seems to deliberate for a while after that before looking outside again. “The sorcerer this morning,” he says slowly, eyes hooded, “He used to play with some of the boys in the kitchen, just a few years ago.”

Something unpleasant curls white-hot inside him. “I know. Father was livid that he... that the boys fraternised with a sorcerer.”

“Ewan is,” Merlin swallows, and corrects himself. “Ewan was. What, seventeen?”

Arthur makes the mistake of catching Merlin’s expression, heartbroken and devastated. “Yes,” he says, after a fashion, not missing the way Merlin’s eyes stay fixed on his face, a strange kind of desperate yearning in them. “But seventeen or not, sorcery is punishable by death, Merlin. Age is not a factor.”

It’s what’s right, it’s what’s just, even if Arthur feels torn between his father and his people when he sees young boys Ewan’s age burned alive for possessing magic, even if they’d done no harm to Camelot. No harm at all. But even though Camelot’s justice is what he’s supposed to unwaveringly believe in under all circumstances as the Crown Prince, it’s the wrong thing to say to Merlin at this time; Arthur watches as Merlin’s face shutters, looking away from him, gritting his teeth before he shoves past Arthur towards the door without looking back.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, confusion and anger warring in him, because if Merlin was sympathising with the sorcerers, that was treason. He couldn’t let Merlin leave like this. Arthur wasn’t his father, but Uther’s word was law — law that could not, would not be denied or defied. “Stop.”

When Merlin doesn’t, Arthur crosses the room and pulls sharply at Merlin’s wrist, catching him off-guard and tripping before he can bolt. “What is wrong with you?”

“Let go of me,” Merlin snaps, and his voice is all fire and ice at the same time, dripping with  a kind of disdain Arthur had never imagined Merlin to be capable of. “I need to get back to Gaius—”

He’s having none of it. “Enough of your excuses.” Arthur’s grip on Merlin’s wrist is unyielding, and Merlin tries to pull away but to no avail. 

“Listen,” he says harshly, when Merlin doesn’t stop struggling, “I know the family did no wrong, but Camelot can’t take any chances. His Majesty can’t take any chances. It’s terrifying, it’s brutal, but that’s the way things are! I will not betray my father, Merlin, not by questioning his stance on magic, because he is immovable in that respect. Do you understand? I cannot and will not betray him. He is my father and my liege. While Camelot is under his rule, some things are absolute.” 

Merlin hisses in pain when Arthur lends a particularly cruel twist to his iron hold, and snaps his eyes back to Arthur’s. He opens his mouth briefly, and Arthur’s sure more snide comments this side of treasonous are about to spill from his lips, but then he snaps it shut and settles for glaring at Arthur instead. There’s so much more to the way he looks at Arthur, though, that isn’t just anger; it’s tempered with disappointment, deep and sad, and a brand of utter, harrowing fear.

He lets go of Merlin almost instantaneously as if burned, appalled at how he’d let his fury get the better of him. “I wouldn’t have hurt you,” he tries, futile, as Merlin backs away from him. Arthur crowds Merlin against the door, frustrated. “I was angry, and I shouldn’t have— it is dangerous for you to say such things here, Merlin. Don’t—”

Merlin’s eyes are dark with betrayal. “I will see you tonight, sire,” he almost spits. “May I be dismissed?”

“Merlin,” Arthur bites out, feeling fear grip him in turn as Merlin leaves his chambers, not waiting for an answer. “Merlin!”

It’s weeks before Merlin so much as smiles at Arthur again.

* * *

 

The treacherous fire of guilt consumes him every time he sees Merlin after that, their altercation like a tangible weight between them and pushing them apart a little more each day. Even the smiles aren’t the same any more, not really; there are moments when Merlin turns to smile at Arthur, and something in his face falls, their once easy banter becoming stilted and awkward. 

Arthur tries to push like he always does, to get Merlin to push back, anything, but Merlin just laughs a little distractedly and avoids his questions and his orders and his not-pleas with a deftness he’d never expected from Merlin, never staying in Arthur’s chambers longer than what is strictly necessary.

Everything feels off-kilter, out of sorts.

“A moment,” he says one day, without thinking, before Merlin can leave, and Merlin pauses next to him. He can’t see Merlin’s face from where he’s seated, but Merlin’s digging his nails into his palms, knuckles white. 

Merlin exhales. “Sire?”

Now that he has Merlin’s attention, he’s not sure what to do next. Arthur chances a glance, and Merlin’s looking resolutely ahead at the door, fixated and restless. It cuts him like a knife, just a little, to think that Merlin might have grown to despise being around him so.

“You’re not happy here,” Arthur comments, idly putting his quill and parchment away. He was the Crown Prince, and he could retain an unhappy and dissatisfied manservant as he could bloody well please; Merlin’s employment was under his terms, for the most part. But Arthur has a conscience, and he doesn’t see the point of keeping Merlin around if Merlin would rather leave. To return to Ealdor, or travel to another kingdom, perhaps. 

He’d rather Merlin not leave. Merlin belongs in Camelot, belongs with his people, his knights whom he’s now firm friends with. 

He belongs with Arthur.

Arthur turns and faces Merlin fully. “Are you?”

Merlin bites his lip, turns away. “Why do you ask?”

If only his conversations with Merlin weren’t like a war zone at this moment, all hidden blades and unexpected wounds. Not for the first time, Arthur wishes he’d never let things get so out of hand that last, bitter argument they had. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“Well. I don’t know,” Merlin says, lips quirked into a bitter smile. It’s wrong. All wrong. “It doesn’t matter. I’m in Camelot, and I should make the most out of the opportunities I have.”

“If you,” Arthur tries, words lodged in his throat, still unable to reconcile the jaded tones of Merlin’s words with the once cheeky Merlin he’s known and lost. “If you want to leave, I won’t hold it against you. No one would.”

Merlin tucks his hand behind his back, his usually expressive face impassive, but he sounds almost sad when he speaks. 

“Do _you_ want me to leave, Arthur?”

It’s the first time Merlin has called him by his name after so long. He never thought he’d miss it, Merlin being impertinent with titles and casually throwing Arthur’s name around like he had every right to, even as a lowly servant. The sudden flash back to their old, forgotten dynamics leaves him reeling.

“No,” Arthur admits. “But neither do I want to force you to stay, Merlin. If you’d be happier elsewhere, I’d give you my blessings and some coin if you needed it. If Camelot’s harsh laws on sorcery distress you—” There’s a sharp intake of breath from Merlin, “—even though you shouldn’t be sympathising with sorcerers, if you...” 

Merlin’s smile turns soft and wan. “I can’t leave,” he says lightly, almost as if he’s describing being imprisoned. “I don’t want to, most days. But it gets difficult, sometimes. I knew Ewan’s family,” Merlin continues, pulling the memory of their brief fight from the dredges of his mind, “We all did. I know better than to say that it was wrong to punish them. Now, anyway.” 

He flashes a look at Arthur, unreadable, defiant, and it all but screams _at least not to your face_. 

“But I just. It’s not safe for anyone, is it? Ewan couldn’t control his magic, but all he did was accidentally set a fire ablaze before he could actually strike the flint. He didn’t use it to hurt anyone. His siblings — children! — probably didn’t have magic, but they were executed anyway.”

Merlin pauses. Arthur shuts his eyes, feeling torn.

“All it would take is one cry of ‘sorcery!’ by a merchant jealous of another’s success, a disgruntled man spurned by the object of his affections, a servant who could spread rumours like wildfire in the castle, and then we’d be lighting the pyre and sentencing another sorcerer, innocent or otherwise, sending them to their fiery deaths.”

“You’re talking about the innocents,” Arthur says, fighting to stay calm. The conversation’s quickly spinning out of control; he’s glad they’re in his chambers, where no one could possibly overhear them. “And what of those who actually have magic?”

“Will you send me to the dungeons if I speak my mind, sire?” Merlin says, tired. “Or execute me, in turn?”

It’s disconcerting how resigned Merlin is. “What you’re implying is dangerously close to being treasonous,” Arthur says, locking his eyes on Merlin’s. “If you have something else to say, say it. I’ll deal with you as I see fit.”

There’s no fear in Merlin’s eyes this time, just that sense of resignation and worn defeat. “They were children,” Merlin repeats. “And even if they weren’t... sometimes people don’t practice magic. They’re born with them, like the druids, and they might not use them for evil. They might not even intend to use them at all. Or maybe they just want to do good, Arthur, just to ensure the survival of their kin, to save another’s life, or...”

Merlin trails off, his sudden surge of outspoken courage fading, looking unsure. It’s a little unfair that he says Arthur’s name like that, just this side of pleading. 

Arthur feels himself give, but tries not to betray his emotions. 

“How can magic be used for good, Merlin? After all the magical attacks on Camelot, on our people?” He asks instead, but he genuinely wants to... discuss this, as he’s never done before. You don’t question the law, but blind justice was a dangerous sword. On many levels, Arthur is afraid. He’s fearless, a knight and warrior with the heart of a lion, but what frightens him most at this very moment is possibility; of having wronged the denizens of Camelot, of causing irreparable harm to the fabrics that weave his people together.

Of having killed those who were punished for simply _being_.

It makes his blood run cold.

But Arthur wants to try, at least. To move beyond the single, narrow train of thought that magic must be evil. His thoughts stray to ruined villages and conquered cities, of broken families on the streets, of women who’d taken their own lives after errant knights had raped them, used them only to be discarded. He thinks of the knights who’d murdered some of these very women after they’d had their fill, laughing all the way, remembers charging at them in his fury and striking them down amidst the fallen flags of a neighbouring kingdom. 

If there are blooded knights gone corrupt, despite their nobility, he reasons privately, what if not all sorcerers wielded magic for their own selfish, devastating gain?

He looks at Merlin for an answer he’s not yet given, unsure of what to expect. He certainly doesn’t expect Merlin to get down on his knees before him, pulling Arthur’s hand down to brush his lips over his knuckles briefly.

“Maybe those who practice magic for the good of Camelot can’t reveal themselves, sire,” Merlin says gently, breath ghosting against his skin. It makes Arthur shiver, just a little. “It’s all right. Just the fact that you would hear me out, even for a moment...”

“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice is shaky, and he curses himself for it.

Merlin just stays there for a moment, before Arthur, and presses his cheek against Arthur’s hand. “Thank you, Your Highness.” The look he directs at Arthur after that throws him, all fierce intensity and unadulterated devotion.

It could be a trick of the firelight, but Merlin’s eyes seem to turn a vicious, proud gold for a second as he regards Arthur; Arthur blinks in surprise, and then it’s gone. 

Merlin stands up after, bowing before Arthur, the deepest he’s ever seen Merlin bow. “It’s my honour to serve you,” Merlin says clearly, voice rough, words an echo from all those years ago since The Questing Beast, “until the day I die.”

Arthur just stares at him, unable to say anything for a good moment, as overwhelmed as he is. Merlin straightens again and looks right back at him, in turn. 

“You idiot,” he says, when he’s managed to find his voice. “You choose to play the loyal servant _now?_ ”

Merlin didn’t seem to have expected that response from Arthur, either. Good. A surprise for a surprise, then. His serious demeanour breaks, and then he’s easing into a grin. “Maybe I just have impeccable timing.”

“You’re abysmal with timing, Merlin.” Arthur stands too, curling a hand around the edge of his chair. “Does this mean you’ll stop moping now? And to think that all you had to do was talk to me.”

Flushing, Merlin makes a face, but he looks contrite. “You’re making light of it. After the last time, sire, I... didn’t think I could.”

“I’m kidding,” Arthur says with uncharacteristic gentleness, even to him; he teases and pushes Merlin until he snaps, that’s how they play their games, always. But it’s not the time. “And I’m sorry,” he ventures, a little uncomfortably, because for all of Arthur’s stubbornness he knows when he’s gone too far, and when he has done someone a great wrong. “For what I did.”

Merlin meets his eyes, and then there’s the look again, heavy and warm, full of things unsaid. It floors Arthur, because he doesn’t think he’s done anything to deserve that from Merlin, not this kind of loyalty.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Merlin says softly, but there’s an edge of cheekiness to it. Arthur swats at him, and Merlin chuckles. “Prince Prat.”

“Don’t push it,” Arthur growls. “Your moping about has been throwing everyone off, I can’t have that continuing in my castle. It’s distracting.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow at him, grin widening. “Why, sire, I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t,” Arthur replies much too quickly, and realises his mistake when Merlin smirks. “You’ve been miserable for weeks, we’ve all been commenting on it. Gaius actually thought I’d been bullying you, the nerve.”

“You bully me every day,” Merlin snipes, but laughs all the same. “Weeks? Someone’s been keeping count.”

Arthur sputters before he can really think about it, because he really has been thinking about how it’s been exactly five weeks and a day since Merlin had slipped and shoved playfully at him the way he’d always did after the fight, before coming back to himself and shrinking back from Arthur, distancing himself again. And he’s not sure why he’d kept count, it had just seemed the natural thing to do at the time to coax Merlin back to his usual joviality, to make things right again.

Taking in Arthur’s speechlessness, Merlin stops and gapes at him. “You actually—”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur says, sounding a bit strangled, wishing a hole would open up beneath him and swallow him whole.

“Arthur,” Merlin begins with glee. “You call me a girl all the time, but there is nothing shameful about acknowledging your sensitive side.”

“No, seriously, shut up.” Arthur rolls his eyes and shoves at him. “Any time now.”

“You’re such an emotionally stunted...” Merlin shakes his head and moves in, closer, closer, until he’s in Arthur’s personal space. “Any time now, you said?” He asks, and Arthur notices now that Merlin’s actually a little taller than he is, and that his eyes are really very blue. “As my prince commands.”

And then he kisses Arthur.

Arthur finds he can’t really complain, as Merlin smiles against his lips and laughs, because at least Merlin’s stopped talking. 

* * *

 

Arthur’s not sure how it actually began.

Secretly, he continues to count the days between Merlin’s smiles when something happens, when they fight, or when he found out Merlin was a sorcerer and the world was a bleak and unyielding place for a few cruel months before they’d given in and apologised to each other, exhausted and wrung out and miserable. 

He counts the days for Merlin to forgive him, for Merlin to let his sadness fall away like leaves, and for Merlin to be happy.

If Merlin looks at him a bit too knowingly once in a while, smiling that infernal smile of his, Arthur just ignores the way it makes him smile back and simply throws the nearest object he can reach at Merlin who'll just dodge it and insult Arthur colourfully before ducking out of the room. 

Merlin infuriates him in all the best ways, but Arthur wouldn’t trade Merlin's smiles for the world.

_ Fin _

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [Megan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/captainsupergeek) for random beta feedback sessions and for being my angst pillow when the feels became too much to handle.


End file.
